Page 15 of Veil of Dust

Photos.

Vespera, in grainy black and white. At the bar. In the alley. Walking through the back door with a cigarette in her mouth.

One photo stops me cold—her sitting on a crate, holding a machete. The shot’s angled through a broken window. Like whoever took it was too scared to get close.

I stare at that one.

He watches me.

“She’s not involved,” I say.

“There’s no such thing as uninvolved,” he says. “Not in this network.”

“Bullshit. She hasn’t taken a cent. She hasn’t agreed to anything.”

He shrugs. “Then you won’t care if she disappears.”

It’s a test. He’s trying to measure my reaction.

I don’t look at him. I just keep staring at the photo.

She looks angry. Focused. Like she already knows what’s coming.

“She’s not your business,” I say. “She’s mine.”

He nods. No apology. No pushback. Just a confirmation that he heard me and that this warning has a clock on it.

He leaves, and the door clicks shut behind him.

I close the folder, set it aside.

Then, I go back to the ledger.

This is how it works.

Numbers. Blood. Silence.

But if they go after her?

If they touch her?

I’ll burn every dollar in this room and make them breathe the smoke.

The door opens.

Bianca walks in.

She doesn’t say anything, just steps inside and decides to wear heels.

Her hair’s tied back, and her eyes are sharper than usual. She scans the room in her usual order—money first, then the crates, then me. The ledger is still open on the table. She locks on to it before the door’s even fully shut.

“You’re off by four,” she says, her voice flat, no emotion. No effort to soften it.

I don’t look up. “Typo.”

“Try again.”

I tap the right margin.

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